


you're going down (on me)

by hoppnhorn



Series: rivals (make the best lovers) [8]
Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: Anal Sex, M/M, motogp au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-13
Updated: 2019-03-13
Packaged: 2019-11-16 10:52:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,227
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18092918
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hoppnhorn/pseuds/hoppnhorn
Summary: Steve gears up to win the championship.





	you're going down (on me)

Shit hits the fan on twitter, of all places. And honestly, it’s fucking _funny_.

At least, Steve thinks so, because he’s in the clear of things, really. Nancy Wheeler, bitter and a complete _drama queen_ , turns to her stupid followers to post some shitty picture of her sipping some kind of iced tea from Starbucks with the caption.

“thank you, next.”

Like it’s not the most _tired_ phrase of the fucking year.

The MotoGP world, however, turns on its goddamn ear like a gossip hungry slut. Nancy’s sob story is on three different blogs in a week and Steve can only roll his eyes at her side of the story.

Steve “the Golden Boy” Harrington is a heartless bastard.

Apparently the ring had been a simple misunderstanding, something she’d worn on the wrong hand on _accident_ , and yet Steve hadn’t reacted well. He was _pissed,_  apparently, that she’d broadcast their relationship status like that.

That she’d lead on his fans without clearing it with him first.

According to poor little Nancy, that was her sign to get out of the toxic relationship. His _fame_ had become more important that she was, and that wasn’t healthy.

Steve knows the truth falls somewhere much closer to the opposite.

The truth is Nancy _used_ him. Used a ring on the wrong finger to make headlines, start _gossip_.

Weirdly enough, he isn’t told to respond to the drama at all. His crack public relations experts have him well hidden and it only makes things worse. It feels like being tucked away as punishment for bad behavior, when really, he’d been the rational one.

He’d been the one to politely ask that she leave his hotel room and he’d even _booked_ her a flight home.

But not before making it very clear he didn’t want to see her again.

In truth, it’s not like she hadn’t seen it coming. He suspects she’d put the ring on her finger in a deliberate _attempt_ to keep a breakup from happening altogether. Like maybe the pressure of the public breathing down his neck about a wedding date would make him actually stick to the plan and forget that he hadn’t touched Nancy in months.

Let alone loved her.

It’s a relief, letting the lie fall away on a grand scale. Like taking off a costume that he’d long outgrown. The awkward interviews and terrible silence that had plagued their relationship is over.

And now he’s _free_.

 

 

Flying under the radar at the end of the season is difficult. He’s only one race away from earning the title _Champion_ for the seventh year and he can taste victory in the air when they start practice on Friday.

It’s kinetic, all around him, like he’s exactly where he needs to be. And it feels _good_. It feels right.

And then he gets an eyeful of Billy in the paddock.

Billy Hargrove. The Maniac. Returning from injury and -- judging by the instagram posts -- _ready_ to get back on the bike, looks like something out of a fucking fantasy. A fantasy Steve never would have guessed would _totally_ be his jam, but is completely, one hundred percent, _his jam._

The asshole is wearing his leathers, but has them open to the waist, letting the arms hang down around his thighs with his entire abdomen bare. Which, _of course_. No shirt. No _undershirt_ , even.

Just his tan, smooth, _ridiculous_ chest.

And, like, it’s _unfair_ how sexy Billy is. Really. Steve doesn’t remember how to breathe when he spots him from two garages down, walking around with his blond hair tousled, curly and up in a haphazard bun while he drinks some kind of Gatorade in front of a photographer.

He’s sex personified. And Steve loves him.

Yeah. _Loves._

Like some kind of fucking _idiot_ , he’s tumbled into the trap of Billy’s blue eyes, beautiful smile and the way Billy whispers his name -- like Steve’s the best thing in the entire world. In awe, maybe. That’s how Billy sounds when Steve’s kissing him, touching him.

Like he’s in _awe_.

And, well.

Ditto.

Because even though Billy isn’t really challenging him in the championship, he’s one hell of a rider. Steve’s always respected that. Always respected how _slick_ Billy is on the track, how fucking _gracefully_ he moves on such a wildly unpredictable machine. What he lacks in height or lean agility, Billy makes up for in strength, saving himself from gravel traps and bad leans with a mere tug on the handlebars.

Billy is a natural. And he’s goddamn _fearless_.

A true force to recon with, and yet he’d crashed to avoid taking Steve out of a race. Billy “the Maniac” Hargrove had taken a bigger hit, to protect _him._

So, _yeah_.

Steve’s a little smitten.

As he watches his ridiculously hot lover “accidentally” dribble translucent purple drink onto his chest and give a husky chuckle, Steve feels something in his ribs flutter. Just like the first time, when Billy had pulled him into a trailer and looked him into the eye, saying he was sorry, Steve wants him. Terribly.

 _Now_.

Like some kind of toddler who stomps their feet and _demands_ things, he wants to stomp over and drag Billy away so he can have his way with him. Instead, he watches from afar as the guy smears the spill around on his stupid abs while the girl taking his picture snaps away.

Steve can’t help but lick his lips and wish he could lap up the stuff with his tongue.

And just as he’s imagining Billy’s breathy moans, rolling his hips and tangling his fingers in his hair, the sex god himself locks eyes with Steve across the paddock.

After that, it’s just a no brainer.

Steve struts over, slapping an all-American grin on his face when the photographer turns around and sees him approaching, and he thrusts out a hand.

“Good to see you back on your feet, Hargrove.” He offers and Billy takes his hand. Shakes it firmly, but not without a lingering stare.

“Couldn’t let you coast your way into the championship, Harrington. That last race was too easy.”

The irony is, the last race was the most difficult of the season. And Billy fucking _knows_ it, with a smarmy smirk on his face when he releases his hand.

“Too bad you were at home, recovering from your fractured...what was it again? Toe?”

And the heat in Billy’s stare makes Steve shiver.

“Don’t worry about me, I’m ready for you.” Billy licks his front teeth, which Steve _knows_ is going to be the picture that the photographer has slapped on a blog entry with “Rivalry Heats Up in Final Race”.

Which is more fitting than they know.

Steve laughs, politely, or something to that effect and claps Billy on the shoulder. Then leans in, just enough to keep his voice from being overheard.

“Seeing all that skin makes me wanna blow you.”

He figures he’s probably being a little mean when he sees Billy seem to stiffen under his hand and his smile flickers with something along the lines of _pain_ while Steve steps away. “Good to have you back.” He repeats with another small pat. Then he nods to the photographer and turns on a heel, headed back to his garage.

 

 

Qualifying is always intense. Ironically, it brings out the nastier side of competition in all of them. Time is their enemy and every racer on the track is an obstacle and Steve _lives_ for those minutes. He lives for the intense adrenaline rush of hitting a stride and pushing until he feels his bike warning him, shimmying ever so slightly when he taps that limit.

He does his best work under immense pressure. The more nerve wracking the race, the more important his _starting position_ , the more centered he feels. Like an arrow, guided and single-minded on finding a mark.

They call it his “Game Face” when they broadcast his blank stare on the television, minutes before he hits the track. They talk about his regime of concentration and meditation.

Usually.

This week, however, Steve hears the commentators chattering away about his online drama as a cameraman swoops into his garage, gets up close to capture his face inside his helmet. He wants to tell them to fuck off, that Nancy and her nonsense have nothing to do with his lap times.

But that’s part of the _game_.

They want him to lose it and perform poorly. As _supportive_ as the organization seems to be, they feed into the drama and inflate it to suit their viewership.

Same as the news.

Same as the blogs.

So he simply stares at a spot on the cement floor of the garage while his crew chief goes through the lap plan. The lines they’ve talked about a hundred times. Hopper talks and Steve listens to the cadence of his voice and tries to push away the sound of the commentators jabbering over the loudspeakers on the track.

_“...former fiancee Nancy Wheeler…”_

“I need them to shut up.” He mutters into the thick pad inside his helmet and Hopper pats the hard exterior, looks him in the eye.

“I’m more important than those assholes. Listen to me, okay? You can do this, kid.”

And, suddenly, like a bolt of lightning, Steve thinks of Billy.

Thinks of what Billy would say to him, if he were here. Billy, who is two garages down and dealing with the same exact bullshit, especially after an injury, when all the talking heads have to say about his quick return to racing is _hope he doesn’t mess it up_.

Like this is Billy’s last shot before his career is over or something. Like he’s not already locked into a contract that _guarantees_ him a spot on a team for the next three years.

Suddenly, Steve’s catty ex and the little problems in his world seem so very insignificant. Afterall, no one is doubting his capability to finish the race. Everyone is anticipating he’ll win, in fact. The t-shirts are _printed_. The banners waiting in boxes.

They’ve already made his golden helmet, the word _Champion_ smacked along the side.

No one doubts him; not like they’re doubting Billy. And as Steve looks over, like he can somehow see Billy through walls and people, wishes he could tell Billy good luck.

That he _believes_ in him.

“You can do this, Steve-o. You hear me?” Hopper repeats.

“Yeah.” Steve murmurs into the foam, finding the spot on the floor again. “Yeah, I hear you.”

 

 

The first lap is always a bust. When racing against time, the first lap is just foreplay. Warming the tires, feeling the track, the bike. It’s like the long breath before the first note of a song.

Steve is holding his breath when he starts the second lap, eyeing the leaderboard as he goes.

01’39.541

The song starts and bike beneath him sings, ripping down long straights, gliding around corners with ease. He can feel other riders behind, can see them flashing in the edges of his vision, but he only hears the road beneath him.

The roar of the motorcycle.

When he hits the third lap, his blood is humming.

01’39.102

He hunts for each corner, hits the apex, filling his lungs on the approach and letting it out when his knee skims along the asphalt. Smooth. Steady.

A flash of red in the corner of his eye makes his heart leap and he doesn’t need to turn his head to know Billy is there. On his tail, riding his slipstream.

 _Asshole_.

So he pushes, silently goading Billy on. _Come get me_ , style.

When they hit the finish line, the horsepower of the Ducati swallows up the gap and Billy rockets around him.

01’38.863

And, really, he should be happy with the lap time. He should.

But Steve punches the throttle, eyes locked on the bright lettering _MANIAC_ on the back of Billy’s leathers. Like there was any doubt who could or _would_ come right up on him like he’s standing still.

Only Billy.

They swoop into a fourth lap and Steve’s breath is ragged. Unsteady, _excited_. His mind wanders, flips to images of Billy on top of him, sucking his neck and stroking his cock and Steve’s body floods with warmth, with _want_. Adrenaline and arousal have him panting inside his helmet and he rides his line hard, looking for any chance to rob Billy blind around a corner.

Maybe surprise him in a braking zone.

He’s _desperate_.

And that’s all it takes.

Steve leans in for a corner, pushing to take it as far as he can, and the bike beneath him surrenders.

And he goes sliding out into the gravel.

 

 

He manages to finish third overall. But even then, Billy is the one that shines.

01’38.701

A new record for the track, made by the man they didn’t think would cut it. And when Billy shows up in parc ferme afterwards, beaming and sweating with curls stuck to his temples, Steve can’t help but feel _proud_.

“Steve, there was a lot of concern about Hargrove’s ability so soon after his injury, but he looked really good out there. What are your thoughts? Are you worried?”

“Tomorrow’s race is going to be fun.” He answers, eyes locked on Billy as his lover slurps from a Monster, gaze _feral_. “Real fun.”

 

 

Billy has a way of being fucking _gorgeous_ no matter what he’s doing. Like, stumbling into Steve’s trailer after a long day at the track, clearly a little drunk, a lot sweaty and _definitely_ horny.

But the guy plays coy when he gets inside, stands in the doorway while Steve strips off his socks. _Finally_ getting out of gear.

“Getting naked?” Billy slurs, a goofy grin on his face. And Steve can’t help but laugh at him, laugh at the way he leers even though Steve’s wearing long-sleeved under armor and shorts. But his expression reads like Steve’s standing in only his skin, an object of arousal instead of, well.

Ode de stinky gym shorts.

“How are you drunk already, it’s only been an _hour_?” He asks, but Billy isn’t deterred. He sways, coming closer.

“I can see your dick in those shorts.” The guy announces, eyes ravenous. “Makes me wanna blow you.”

Steve lets out an actual freaking _giggle_.

“Did you like that?”

“That was _rude_ , Harrington.”

Before he can retort, Billy’s in his space, filling the whole room with his presence and scent. Booze and deodorant and leather. Steve pecks his plump lips, gets a sharp taste of dry cava, and smiles.

“Hi.”

“Hey, pretty boy.” Billy purrs, ducks his head to brush his mouth over the soft spot beneath Steve’s ear. “I’ve missed you.”

And even though it’s only been a little under two weeks since he’d shown up at Billy’s place, Steve feels the same sentiment shudder through him at an alarming rate.

But a lot has _happened_ since then. A lot of things that Steve knows Billy won’t bring up because, well.

Billy thinks he’s chill.

Steve just knows better.

“I’ve missed you too.” He says genuinely, both hands coming up to cup Billy’s face so he can _see_ him when he adds, “This last week has been weird for me.”

That brings whatever teasing grin is growing on Billy’s face to a dead stop and he sighs, wraps his arms around Steve’s waist.

“I’m sorry about that.”

“Are you really?” He asks, not because he _doubts_ Billy but because, well. Okay, he _doubts_. “I wouldn’t be sorry if it were me.”

Billy wrinkles his nose and chuckles.

“Harsh, coming from the Golden Boy.” Then, relinquishing a second sigh, he steps away. Out of Steve’s arms and back into a chair, where he suddenly looks far too sober. “Am I sorry you’re single? Hell no.” Steve can’t help but smile but Billy rakes his fingers through his hair. “Am I sorry the press is parading Nancy around like she’s some _wronged_ woman? Yes. Am I sorry they’re dragging your name around in the process?” He stands, kisses Steve fast and chaste before he stares him square in the eye. “ _Hell_ yes.”

“Thanks.” Steve whispers. But he can’t feel _bad_ about his situation now, while he stands nearly nose-to-nose with the most beautiful man in the world. “I’m sorry I brought it up.”

“Me too, I wanted to get _naked_.” Billy purrs, the deviousness returning to his heated stare. “I’ve heard breakup sex is _awesome_.”

“That’s not—”

But he doesn’t get to protest, Billy kisses him soundly, pushing him up against the sofa until Steve has no choice but to collapse in it. And then watch as Billy slowly unzips his leathers.

“What did you say about blowing me?” He asks, tongue playing at his bottom lip. Steve grins.

“Come here.”

And when Billy obliges, stepping up to the edge of the couch, Steve leans in and grabs him at the waist. Holds him there to stare up at him as he pulls Billy’s leathers down to his hips.

“You look edible like this.” Steve murmurs, then ducks his head to kiss the lowest skin on Billy’s exposed stomach. Because, _of course_ , he wasn’t wearing anything underneath. “I was having trouble looking away the other day.”

 _“Steve.”_ Billy’s voice is breathy, _aching_ , and Steve relishes the blush that has started on his lover’s chest. Knows it’ll travel up his neck, up to his ears.

“You turn me on all the time, but _that_ was just _cruel._ ” He teases, kisses Billy’s left hip. “I want you, all the time.”

“Steve.” There’s a grin on Billy’s face, a raised eyebrow. “Take off my pants.”

“Yes, dear.” He shoots back, but not without obeying. And it’s a task, working the things off Billy’s legs. But when he’s standing there in only his boxer briefs, Steve’s heart rockets. A lot like during the race.

The adrenaline. The arousal.

“Step two.” Billy whispers, hooking his thumbs in his underwear to pull them away. Down his thick thighs before they hit the floor at his feet. And, well. Steve’s brain short circuits.

He’s seen Billy naked, kinda. Mostly, maybe?

But this, the display in front of him, is something else. Perfect skin and chiseled body, all topped with a beautiful face. A heartstopping smile.

“Jesus.” He breathes.

As Billy straddles him on the couch, he winks. “Just Billy.”

And Steve’s scoff is quickly kissed from his lips, hungrily, _impatiently_. Wet but pleasantly so, tangy from cava.

“Step three.” Billy whispers against his mouth, pulling back for just a moment to slip a hand between them. Under the waistband of Steve’s shorts.

“Billy—”

“I want you.” His lover interrupts. Kisses him deep, licking passed his teeth. “Please.” His hand strokes softly at Steve’s groin, coaxing him to fill out, fatten under his touch.

Between the two of them, getting his shorts off takes very little effort.

“Lube.” Billy breathes. “In my pocket.”

Sure enough, in the little zip pocket of his discarded leathers are two packets of lube. A couple of condoms. Magnums, of course, which only makes Steve laugh.

“Someone _planned_ this.” He feigns shock but Billy only grins, wiggles his eyebrows as he rips open a condom wrapper with his teeth.

“Maybe.” He spits the foil onto the floor and Steve snorts, smacks Billy’s ass. Because he _can_.

“Thank god your reputation got you sponsored by Trojan.” He jokes. “Bad boy Billy, having tons of sex _all the time_.”

Then suddenly Billy goes still on top of him, eyes unfocused. And before Steve can ask what’s wrong, before he can say _anything_ , Billy snaps back to center. Looks him dead in the eye.

“You should know, I haven’t been with anyone else for almost a year. Except you.”

 _That_ slows things down considerably. Even with their cocks hard between them, lube and condom in hand, Steve stops. And says the first thing that pops into his head.

“Me either.”

Billy’s frown forms a crease between his eyes.

“What—”

“Nancy hasn’t been interested in me for more than a good photo op in a long time.” Brushing his hands over Billy’s thighs, he remembers countless nights where Nancy didn’t even acknowledge his _existence_ though he was lying in the same bed, not three feet from her. “Then she started cheating and I just didn’t care.”

And when he dares to look up at Billy, the guy promptly crashes their mouths together. Kisses him silly, until he’s panting, arching up with ridiculous _need_.

“Her loss.” Billy whispers when he finally pulls away, rolls a condom on Steve before he can even _blink_. “Seriously.” And then Billy’s _stroking_ his cock, hard and fast, making Steve breathe in forceful gasps, clutching at Billy’s hips.

He’s never _been_ with someone like Billy before, never felt so absolutely in over his head when it came to sex. What used to constitute as _good sex_ doesn’t really measure up anymore, not when Billy can make him writhe like a virgin with just his _hands_.

“Billy, _please_.”

“Tell me.” Billy sucks at his neck, the sound of lube wet over Steve’s cock. “Tell me what you want.”

“You.” Is the only thing he can _think_ of, but Billy doesn’t let him get away with that. Not even close. His fingers tangle in the roots of Steve’s hair and he _pulls,_  pins his head back on the sofa so they’re staring face to face.

The sound of slick obscene between them.

“What do you want from me?” Billy growls, his fist impossibly tight, making Steve squirm on the couch. Twitch in Billy’s palm.

“I wanna fuck you.” Steve gasps out. “I want you on my dick, so bad.”

“Ask _nice,_  pretty boy.”

“ _Please_ , baby.” It’s so easy, calling Billy something so sweet. So, _cute_. It never worked with Nancy. She’d wrinkle her nose and tell him she was more a _babe_ than baby and the word babe never felt right. Not when he was trying to get her to touch his dick.

Or maybe just _notice_ him in general.

But Billy isn’t Nancy. He can call Billy baby and the guy _melts_ under his gaze, leans in to seal their mouths.

It’s adorable, really. That Billy Hargrove likes to be called _baby_ in the sack. Endearing.

Lifting Billy up and on top of him has them both grappling on the stupid little couch, sliding around until Steve flops back, fully flatted on the cushions with Billy astride him. Slicking the way before he lines them up and _presses_ down, like something out a fucking wet dream. He’s a goddamn vision, speared on Steve’s dick with his mouth open -- his cheeks pink, a fist around his cock, red and jutting out from his hips.

All the while _sitting_ on him.

Steve can only watch and groan at all the _heat_ and friction.

“You’re so big.” Billy pants, a hand braced on Steve’s chest as he rocks in little thrusts, taking more and more until Steve swears his dick is a foot long. “God, you feel so _good._ ” His abs flex, hips swaying like a dance, taking more, pushing back. His cock bobs, slaps against Steve’s stomach.

And he can’t _breathe._

“Fuck, _Billy_.”

“Yeah, you like that?” The words would be mocking if they weren’t so laced with the same sort of _desperation_. The same hunger that makes Steve’s voice rough, brings him up from the couch to catch Billy’s kiss, slide his tongue into his mouth.

It’s so good, so _incredible_. He can’t help but moan and hump up from the couch, bottoming out in one thrust. Greedy to get all of his cock inside Billy’s tight ass while the guy simultaneously sinks his weight down, choking on a cry.

For a second, that’s all it is. The two of them, connected, shaking apart with Billy’s dick _dripping_ a gleaming trail over Steve’s stomach.

“ _Steve_.” He breathes against his lips with eyes so blue, so _wide_ , Steve is drowning in them.

And that’s all the hint he needs. Slapping his hips to Billy’s ass, he thrusts until the guy’s legs are quaking, precome spurting steadily over his fist as his body goes impossibly tight. Muscles rigid.

Both hands on Steve’s chest, he gasps, “Steve, _shit_. Don’t stop _._ ”

Honestly, an army couldn’t stop him. It’s akin to rushing towards the finish line, the checkered flag waving wildly. There’s a _fire_ that hits his blood when victory is in sight.

Only it’s Billy who wins, finishing with a strangled snarl, thick wads of white come painting Steve’s black under armor -- he doesn’t fucking _care_ that it’s filthy. Doesn’t care that he’ll have to _most likely_ throw the shirt out, not when he has a whole closet of them.

It’s the hottest thing he’s ever seen. Even hotter when it’s obvious Billy can’t _stop_ , his entire body trembling as he orgasms, the whole time clutching him, saying Steve’s name with this _euphoria_.

Awe. Always awe.

It sends Steve right over the edge after him, grinding his teeth as he fills up the condom and grunting like a beast as he curls his hips -- digs deep while Billy blankets him in a hug and mouths at his throat.

 _Moans_ for him. Like Steve’s pleasure is his own.

 

 

After that, winning the race, and the Championship, feels a little anticlimactic.


End file.
